and lived in Switzerland. She had been married then, to an artist. Bridget and her husband, whose name was Eric, had had all sorts of adventures, like taking a trip around Europe on bicycles with hardly any money. Robin thought it sounded a little like the Williamses and their old Model T, except Bridget’s adventures sounded amusing and exciting.
Sometimes Robin talked about her family or about things she had seen and done, but nearly always her stories were about the days before the Williamses left Fresno. Nothing much had happened since then that she liked to talk about, at least not until she came to Las Palmeras.
There was one very important area, though, that they never discussed. As if by silent agreement, they did not talk about the key, Palmeras House, or the Velvet Room. After that first day, Bridget never brought the subject up again, and neither did Robin. She didn’t understand Bridget’s silence, but then she really didn’t understand her own either — except that the feeling she had about the Velvet Room was something she could never share with anyone.
It was on about the fourth or fifth visit that Robin made a fascinating discovery in the Velvet Room. She had been browsing through the books and had worked her way up to the top of the first stack of shelves. Now she was using the top step of the ladder that ran along the shelves on a little track. This whole row of books seemed to be about the early days in California, and some of them looked verv old.
She couldn’t help thinking how much her father would like to see these books. He was interested in California’s early history, at least he had been. Her thought brought the usual sharp pinch of worry about Dad, but it was easy in the Velvet Room to shut out worries like that. So she just shoved it away and went back to the books.
At the end of the shelf were several oddly shaped volumes. Some were long and narrow, like ledgers, and some were very small. The long narrow ones were full of records, written in faded old-fashioned script. They were hard to read, but Robin made out that they were dated in the 1870’s and ’80’s, and were mostly records of sales and purchases. There were dozens of entries concerning the sale of cattle and hides and purchases of grain and hay.
One of the very small books, too, seemed to be a record of some sort, with dated entries in elaborate, flowing handwriting. The first entry filled nearly the whole page and was dated January 1, 1890. The faded writing in an unfamiliar style was difficult to read, and Robin was about to give up and return it to the shelf when she noticed a signature at the end of the page. It was a single word beginning with an elegantly curly B: Bonita.
Afterward Robin didn’t even remember getting off the ladder and crossing the room to the alcove. But she must have because, a long time later, that’s where she found herself. But in between, time had not existed at all. At least Robin Williams and June, 1937, had not existed. In between there had only been Palmeras House in 1890 and a girl named Bonita, who had lived there then.
The Diary
January 1, 1890:
On Christmas Day, Aunt Lily presented me with this beautiful volume and suggested that a young lady ought to keep a daily journal. Aunt Lily says that she was taught that a journal, faithfully kept, is not only a useful record, but a valuable discipline in orderliness and organization. She was kind enough to show me her diary, and it is, indeed, very neat and impressive. She writes a lovely hand, and everything is beautifully organized. By making daily entries she keeps track of all sorts of useful information, such as when the rugs were beaten and who has been on the guest list for dinner recently.
My dearest friend, Mary Ortega, keeps a diary too. However, it’s not a bit like Aunt Lily’s. Mary’s journal hasn’t any records at all, but instead, it is full of her favorite poetry, confidential observations about all her friends,
Sometimes Robin talked about her family or about things she had seen and done, but nearly always her stories were about the days before the Williamses left Fresno. Nothing much had happened since then that she liked to talk about, at least not until she came to Las Palmeras.
There was one very important area, though, that they never discussed. As if by silent agreement, they did not talk about the key, Palmeras House, or the Velvet Room. After that first day, Bridget never brought the subject up again, and neither did Robin. She didn’t understand Bridget’s silence, but then she really didn’t understand her own either — except that the feeling she had about the Velvet Room was something she could never share with anyone.
It was on about the fourth or fifth visit that Robin made a fascinating discovery in the Velvet Room. She had been browsing through the books and had worked her way up to the top of the first stack of shelves. Now she was using the top step of the ladder that ran along the shelves on a little track. This whole row of books seemed to be about the early days in California, and some of them looked verv old.
She couldn’t help thinking how much her father would like to see these books. He was interested in California’s early history, at least he had been. Her thought brought the usual sharp pinch of worry about Dad, but it was easy in the Velvet Room to shut out worries like that. So she just shoved it away and went back to the books.
At the end of the shelf were several oddly shaped volumes. Some were long and narrow, like ledgers, and some were very small. The long narrow ones were full of records, written in faded old-fashioned script. They were hard to read, but Robin made out that they were dated in the 1870’s and ’80’s, and were mostly records of sales and purchases. There were dozens of entries concerning the sale of cattle and hides and purchases of grain and hay.
One of the very small books, too, seemed to be a record of some sort, with dated entries in elaborate, flowing handwriting. The first entry filled nearly the whole page and was dated January 1, 1890. The faded writing in an unfamiliar style was difficult to read, and Robin was about to give up and return it to the shelf when she noticed a signature at the end of the page. It was a single word beginning with an elegantly curly B: Bonita.
Afterward Robin didn’t even remember getting off the ladder and crossing the room to the alcove. But she must have because, a long time later, that’s where she found herself. But in between, time had not existed at all. At least Robin Williams and June, 1937, had not existed. In between there had only been Palmeras House in 1890 and a girl named Bonita, who had lived there then.
The Diary
January 1, 1890:
On Christmas Day, Aunt Lily presented me with this beautiful volume and suggested that a young lady ought to keep a daily journal. Aunt Lily says that she was taught that a journal, faithfully kept, is not only a useful record, but a valuable discipline in orderliness and organization. She was kind enough to show me her diary, and it is, indeed, very neat and impressive. She writes a lovely hand, and everything is beautifully organized. By making daily entries she keeps track of all sorts of useful information, such as when the rugs were beaten and who has been on the guest list for dinner recently.
My dearest friend, Mary Ortega, keeps a diary too. However, it’s not a bit like Aunt Lily’s. Mary’s journal hasn’t any records at all, but instead, it is full of her favorite poetry, confidential observations about all her friends,
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